Six days, seven nights at a luxury resort on a gorgeous beach in Florida. Sure, it sounds like a peaceful Spring Break, but if you're part of the Spencer family, there is no such thing as peace.
I don't get how our family vacations end up like a bad Chevy Chase Christmas movie, except with booze, explicatives and anti-depressants for long airplane rides.
There is hardly a vacation where somebody doesn't end up with third-degree sunburns (me), massive, debilitating diaherria (my mom, who will casually tell everyone and warn them to not eat the shrimp at the hotel restaurant) or a ticket for soliciting a prostitute for a topless foot massage with McDonald's gift certificates (my younger brother).
This vacation was no exception, and it started out with a literal bang. We had just gotten into our rental car, music was already blaring out of my brother's headphones, and he was spitting some lyrics: I like to see your booty / Roll like sushi / I'm trying to dip my celery in her bleu cheese."" He says Lil Wayne is like a poet who far surpasses any of his peers like Snoop Dogg, Yeats or Wordsworth.
""Turn that gangster music off,"" my dad commands, sticking the key in the ignition. ""You are from a North Shore suburb.""
My dad started to back out of the parking a lot. My mom and I were fighting about who brought cuter clothes, because my mom still thinks she's 18 (True story: She took pictures of herself posing on the beach using her cell phone and texted them to her friends at home). Our bickering and my brother's rapping made the car loud. We were interrupted by a noise that sounded like our car hitting another car. It was.
I'll let you guess the four letter word my dad muttered. He then followed it up with his most famous tagline:
""If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.""
He'll say this the rest of the vacation after anything bad happens, like when he loses his wallet and has no way to pay for an expensive family dinner, or when the hotel's electricity goes out, forcing us to light candles - not watch TV and hold hands and sing ""Kumbaya.""
He punches the steering wheel and then gets out of the car to inspect the damage. I'm glad the anxiety pill I took on the airplane was somewhat effective.
My mom is fuming and lights a cigarette, telling my brother and me that she wishes our family knew how to be nice to each other. She had a point. It was then that I decided the only things I'd say would be quotes from ""The Departed.""
""I'm gonna go have a smoke right now. You want a smoke? You don't smoke, do ya, right? What are ya, one of those fitness freaks, huh?"" I say.
My mom rolls her eyes and looks confused.
""What, do you got your period?"" I ask.
""You're disgusting.""
My brother interrupts our powwow with his live rendition of Lil Wayne's ""Pussy, Money, Weed."" Yes, this is a real song, and yes, this pretty much sums up his interests at this point of his life. He's 17.
After the Hertz man checks our damage, we leave the airport and inch our way toward the highway. My dad is now in a cheery mood; he has this ability to go from a madman to a perky TV dad, a la Danny Tanner, but more heterosexual.
My mom, who is pretty much scared of all forms of transportation - airplanes, automobiles and tandem bicycles - buries her head in her pillow. I see my dad grab her hand. My brother sticks one of his headphones up to my ear and plays me one of his new favorite songs. I knew it was going to be a nice vacation and wanted to tell them everything was going to be great - but I didn't remember any uplifting quotes from my favorite Irish gangsters.
If you want to take Ashley on your next family vacation from hell, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
